


Sheriff Stilinski's Open-Door Policy

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Gift Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 19:16:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Security isn't always defined by how many locks are on your door. Sometimes it's defined by a pair of arms holding you tight or a voice whispering assurances in the midst of fear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sheriff Stilinski's Open-Door Policy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VulgarSequins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VulgarSequins/gifts).



> Based on [this gifset](http://teenwolf.tumblr.com/post/72510311825) of Stiles and his dad, courtesy of the official _Teen Wolf_ Tumblr. Written as gift fic for my buddy [Cass](http://saltybonesloki.tumblr.com), who reblogged the gifset in the first place.
> 
> Shout out to fellow tumblrites [200dollargod](http://200dollargod.tumblr.com/) and [writer-renegade](http://writer-renegade.tumblr.com) for providing additional information that I couldn't find on the _Teen Wolf_ Wikia to write this, because I barely know anything past what I can glean from postings on my dash.

It’s getting to the point where he’s almost forgetting what it feels like to sleep with his bedroom door closed, never mind locked. So many years of training, of honed instinct; so many years of seeing the worst result of not following that simple rule; keeping the doors and windows of the Stilinski household locked should be at the forefront of the sheriff’s mind—are normally at the forefront of his mind, to tell the truth, but lately other things have taken precedence. Important things.

Things that require a literal open-door policy.

If it troubles the good sheriff past the point of sleeping, it’s only because he knows (now more than ever) that it shouldn’t be this way. His lack of sleep should be from the stress of his job. His tendency to come alert at the smallest sound should just be reflex from years of police training and experience. In a perfect world—

Hell, in a _normal_ world—

The sheriff hears what sounds to him like something creaking and in a flash, he sits up. He tilts his head, strains his hearing until he almost swears he can hear the dead whispering two counties away, and he waits.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

 _It’s just the house settling._ The good Sheriff Stilinski settles back onto his bed but not back into any sort of comfort. _Just Stiles turning over._

Stiles. His boy. Practically a man of his own now. He frowns and runs a hand over his face. In a perfect world—in a _normal_ world, in the world they lived in before all of this…werewolf monster business—there would only be the average parental concerns. Will he graduate from school with good grades? Will he get into a good college? Will he have the right friends, marry the right person? Will he ever wind up arrested by his own father for doing something stupid?

Despite himself, a soft chuckle escapes. He doubts, past experiences notwithstanding, that the last one will ever happen. Somehow, by some kind of miracle, Stiles is a good young man at heart. A good son. Someone who shouldn’t have to worry about—

_Stiles?_

The sheriff sits up again, alerted by what sounds to him like whimpering. His breath sits caught in his throat. His heartbeat goes slower in his ears as he waits.

And waits.

And waits.

 _Nothing. Just normal sleep noises._ This time, he does not lie down. He lets the air rush out of his nose as he gets out of bed. _Do you even remember what sleep is?_

Of course, he does. He is, at least, familiar with the concept.

_Go the kitchen. Get a drink of water. Get to bed. You got work in the morning._

A glance at a nearby clock tells him that it is already morning. Four-thirty, give or take a few seconds. Won’t be long now before he has to get dressed; not much longer still before even Stiles has to wake up for class. There is some comfort in the knowledge gained from the clock, in the mental math used to measure out the routine of ordinary events. Maybe this will be the day when the extra-strength coffee will be worth it. Maybe today the risk of nearly nodding out at his desk will have some merit. Maybe today, he can finally mean it when he blames the dark circles and early-morning sluggishness on just being too uncomfortable to sleep.

Maybe today it will only happen to one of them.

And that, of course, is when the terrified screaming starts.

Complex thought dissipates instantly. The cup of water falls out of his hand; forgotten, ignored as it clatters and empties its contents onto the kitchen floor. The good sheriff races on blind autopilot, following the horrible sound even as it continues to fill the house. He hurls himself against the door, a battering ram fueled by the desire to protect what is his—

“Stiles!”

If the good sheriff stalls for a moment, it is only because the vision of his son writhing in terror, screaming at whatever attacks him in his mind will never become a customary sight. In the space provided by panicked gasping, he collects himself. He makes it to the bed, to his _son_ , just as a fresh scream begins to rise anew from the young man’s throat.

“N-NO! NO LET GO—! LET GO!”

“It’s okay—”

“NO—!”

“It’s okay, I got you—I got you, son. I got you. It’s okay…”

He does his best to keep his voice gentle, though it shakes. His grip around his boy is firm, protective—an angel lifting his charge from his private perdition. It doesn’t matter that his son scratches and hits in perceived defense, or that his screams make the good sheriff’s ears ring. The elder Stilinski does not let go. He does not leave. He keeps whispering that mantra until he’s certain that his son can hear him, and then until he’s certain that Stiles actually believes him—or at least until Stiles _seems_ like he does.

It feels like it takes forever for the screaming to die down. Stiles inhales in gasps, exhales in whimpers; trades struggling against his father for clinging back just as tightly. His face is red from the recent exertion.

“Dad—”

The word comes out small, broken—less like a word or a name, more like a plea.

“It’s okay,” he answers. “It’s okay, I’m here—”

“It—”

“You’re safe.”

“O-oh—” Stiles inhales a gasp, exhales in a broken whimper, “Oh, Dad—”

He starts to cry and the good sheriff feels helplessness descend like a shroud. Robbers, vandals, murderers, hell—even the monsters he now knows to be real… These things, he can at least try to protect his son from, but what is he supposed to do about the monsters of the mind?

_Nothing. There isn’t anything you can do, is there?_

He holds his son closer, presses a kiss to the top of his head. Comfort, assurance, stability; these things, he can provide. These things, he can do.

“It’s okay, son. It’s gonna be okay. I’ll stay here with you…”

And for now, the good sheriff hopes, maybe these things will be enough.


End file.
